Warned Off (4 page)

Back
at the cottage I poured a drink stiff enough to splint a fracture and sat down.
It was cold and gloomy. I lit a fire. After five minutes’ spitting and
crackling, the logs caught properly and began warming the room.

I stood in front of it staring down at
the burning logs. Then at myself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. The
flames weaved and jumped, casting light then shadows on my face and shoulders.
I looked tired ... ghostly.

After another drink I began to feel warm
inside as well as out. Pulling the chair nearer the fire I sat. It had been a bloody
melancholy day. Tipping the glass toward me, I looked through the liquid at the
soft yellow glow of the flames. All that looked back was my self-pitying face.
Finishing the drink in one gulp I shut out all the old pathetic thoughts and
faced up to reality.

I was no longer a jockey. Maybe I’d
never be a jockey again. There was a job to do and it had to be done on the
racecourse as much as anywhere else.

I had hated that place today because I
wasn’t the big shot any more. I would always despise going to racecourses now.
I couldn’t handle being just one of the crowd ...Well, I would damn well just
have to get used to it because it was the only way back for me.

Pouring another drink I tried piecing
together the day’s events. I hadn’t been able to talk to Harle. He’d been tied
up with interviews, celebrations and all the other demands which fall on
Champion Hurdle winners.

How direct could I be anyway when I did
meet him? It wouldn’t be long before people would start asking questions about
me asking questions. I’d gone over the top a bit with Joe Lagota. He was
definitely suspicious and though he was lazy, he was shrewd enough. If Joe
smelt an exclusive for his paper he’d get busy. I’d have to be careful.

I thought about Harle’s connections:
Roscoe and this phantom, Perlman. Strange bedfellows. Harle himself, his rapid
rise to fame.

I had been out of racing a while but
things don’t change that much. I’d never known a jockey to bum around as long
as Harle then find himself employed by a powerful new owner as first jockey.

What goes for jockeys goes double for
trainers. They don’t come from nowhere to training for a top owner. Roscoe was
even more surprising than Harle, who’d at least had the experience of riding
round the gaffs. But here was Roscoe, up with the guys who’d been training
festival winners before he could keep his nappy dry for a night, training a
Champion Hurdle winner. How long had he known Harle?

As for the elusive Mr Perlman, I’d heard
of one or two shy owners in my riding days but they’d never stuck the game
long. They were the people who’d inherited horses or rich folks pressed into it
by poorer friends. Owning racehorses was not a pastime for shrinking violets.

It stretched credibility to
breaking-point to believe that Perlman wouldn’t make at least a token
appearance to be presented by the Queen Mum with the Champion Hurdle winner’s
trophy. If he were patronising one of the big stables I’d have been inclined to
believe he was simply an eccentric but the fact that Harle and Roscoe were
involved made me sceptical.

Perlman had to have something serious to
hide. Maybe under another name he’d been warned off. If so, what offence had he
committed?

Harle would be staying at the Duke’s
Hotel in Cheltenham. The racing snobs never stayed anywhere else. Roscoe was
certain to be bedding down there with Mrs Roscoe and where he was, Harle
wouldn’t be far behind.

There would be a party tonight with the
Champion Hurdle under their belts and everybody who thought they were anybody
would be there. The tales passing among the loose tongues would be worth
hearing. I decided to invite myself.

It was 7.30. My glass was almost empty.
I swallowed the last of the whisky and decided to sleep for a couple of hours
before tidying myself up to gatecrashing standard.

The
Rover’s twin beams lit up the narrow twisting hilly roads which didn’t
straighten till near the outskirts of Cheltenham. The town was busy. The
population must treble during festival week. 

The white front of the Duke’s Hotel was
illuminated by a row of floodlights in the gardens. This was my first time
through its doors for six years. Inside, nothing had changed: twenty guineas a
roll wallpaper and thirty quid a yard carpet. Teak, leather, brass and silk in
dignified doses.

At reception a dark-eyed, cream-bloused
girl told me Mr Roscoe had taken the Directors Suite for the evening, that it
was on the third floor and if I was Mr Glenn I was to go right up.

The suite was big enough to hold maybe
fifty or sixty people. It seemed to me there were at least a hundred packed in
there.

They had all dressed for a party, some
of the women with much care, but that had been hours ago. By now there were
signs of staleness; a carelessly rubbed eye leaving a mascara smear, a few
straggling tendrils escaping from a blonde bun, a vee-shaped frock front which
had taken an uneven dive showing a tanned, wrinkled cleavage. If all the
jewellery were real there was a million pounds’ worth.

I recognised a number of jockeys, many
conspicuous anyway by their short stature. The other men were all shapes and
sizes and in varying stages of undress, some missing ties or jackets or both.
Everyone held a drink. It was warm and stuffy from too many bodies. A sweaty
affair.

I sidled through the throng to where I’d
guessed the bar was. Three staff in black uniforms were pouring champagne at a
hot pace. I lifted a glass.

Someone spoke in my right ear. ‘Take
two.’ A note in the voice zoomed straight into my memory bank and locked on
immediately. I knew who it was before I started turning round, a girl I hadn’t
seen since I was fifteen years old, a beauty I’d had such a crush on at school
I hadn’t even been able to speak to her.

I faced her. Charmain. The auburn hair
was pinned up showing small ears and the fine jawline, as I remembered it,
along with the green eyes and the wide lips, just thick enough to give the
impression of a permanent pout. She was lightly made-up, a natural flush
colouring her cheeks.

I had never forgotten her. She’d been my
first love and it hadn’t mattered all that much that it was unrequited. I had
often lain awake, especially in prison, thinking about her, dreaming of meeting
again and fantasising about the outcome.

The scene had been well rehearsed in my
mind; we’d look at each other for a long moment just like we were doing now
then she’d say, in a voice mixed with curiosity and desire, ‘Aren’t you Eddie
Malloy?’ All my old feelings for her came welling back as I waited for her to
speak. Her look turned to one of slightly puzzled recognition. ‘Don’t I know
you?’

I nodded, trying to look cool. ‘I’m
Eddie Malloy. We were at school together.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, I remember ... of
course.’

But I could see she didn’t remember so I
pretended, childishly, that I couldn’t recall her name properly. ‘And you’re, eh,
is it Carol ...?’

‘Charmain,’ she said, unoffended.
‘Caroll used to be my surname but I’m married now.’ She held out  her left
hand. The fat solitaire over a wide golden wedding band put the seal on my past
like a trap-door closing.

I stared at the rings. ‘When did that
happen?’ I asked, unintentionally making it sound like some kind of tragedy.

‘Six months ago,’ she said, smiling
radiantly.

I caught myself about to ask if she
really loved him. I was getting sillier by the minute. She made me feel even worse
with her next question. ‘What are you now?’ she asked. I frowned. ‘I mean, are
you a trainer or a jockey or something?’

Obviously just a something, I thought.
In her eyes, anyway. ‘I used to be a jockey,’ I said.

‘Were you good?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that all?’

‘What more do you want?’

‘You don’t just say yes to a question
like that.’

‘I do.’

She looked perplexed.

‘You’re funny,’ she said.

I stared at her. ‘Thanks.’

‘Why did you stop if you were good?’

‘The authorities took my licence away.’

‘Why?’

‘They said I was involved with a doping
ring.’

‘Were you?’

‘What do you think?’ I asked, my
childishness showing again. She shrugged, looking slightly hurt at my attitude.
‘I don’t think you’d have done it,’ she said.

I suddenly felt a great tenderness for
her which was quickly snuffed out by a hefty bump from behind which made me
spill my drink. Some splashed down into an empty glass but most stained the
bar’s white linen tablecloth. The offender pushed past without apologising.

I recovered and looked round. A large
man had his hand on Charmain’s bare arm. Four thick fingers gripped her so
tightly that the flesh between them showed white.

She looked surprised and embarrassed. He
looked very angry.

About six feet two, fiftyish, his pale
skin emphasising how much dye his bluish-black hair had been doused with. It
looked greasy and hung over his collar. His sideburns were the same colour and
stretched to two inches below his ear lobe. His eyes were grey.

He wore a fawn jacket over a stomach
that was held in only by a large ego. His feet, in crocodile shoes, splayed
badly.

He looked as mean as he had when I’d
seen him earlier that day at the races paying out a lot of money.

‘Howard!’ Charmain said, half pleading,
reaching to try and ease his grip on her arm.

‘Where have you been?’ His voice was
level but threatening. I guessed he’d had a lot of practice containing a nasty
temper in public. I was having some trouble containing mine.

‘I just came to get another drink, darling!’
She looked up at him and turned on a full wattage smile, though he was still
hurting her. I watched his fingers, they began to relax.

‘Good,’ he said and released her arm.
Her hand went up to cover the thick white marks, though she kept smiling. His
ugly mouth smiled, showing teeth yellow near the gums and white at the biting
end but his eyes stayed mean.

Charmain introduced us. ‘Oh, Howard,
this is Eddie, he used to be a jockey.’ He looked down and his smile faded. He
didn’t offer his hand and he didn’t say pleased to meet you. Charmain tried it
from my side. ‘Eddie, this is my husband Howard Stoke.’

I smiled my most pleasant smile. It
upset him.

‘Who invited you?’ The growl was still
level.

‘I’m a friend of Alan Harle’s.’

‘I could have guessed that,’ he said.
‘You jockeys all have the same dumb look.’ He smiled at his little taunt and
his eyes kept watching me from their four-inch height advantage. I drank.

‘Are you always so nice to new
acquaintances?’ I asked. He leaned forward and down. ‘You won’t ever be an
acquaintance of mine, son.’

I feigned deep disappointment, shaking
my head. ‘And after we’d started on such friendly terms.’

He leaned even closer. I could hear him
breathe in his nostrils. ‘And you won’t ever be an acquaintance of this lady
either, you randy little bastard!’ The grey in his eyes was darkening and I
felt like saying, I’ve got news for you, mate, but for Charmain’s sake I
didn’t.

Charmain clutched his sleeve. ‘Howard,
please come and introduce me to some of your friends!’ He hesitated, glaring at
me for another five seconds, then he grabbed her arm and turned away. She
didn’t look at me as she followed him. I called after him, ‘Very nice meeting
you, Mr Stoke.’

He turned and snarled, ‘Up yours.’

‘Likewise.’ I smiled. They went into the
throng and I watched his head bob away across the room as he dragged Charmain
behind him. Beauty and the beast. How the hell had she got tied up with him?

Taking another glass of champagne I went
looking for Alan Harle. I saw him standing by the entrance and started making
my way across. When I was half a dozen steps away he opened the door and went
out. I followed him.

Six
paces ahead and weaving unsteadily along the corridor Harle stopped and pushed
carelessly against a door. It swung back and he went in. I reached the door;
Gentlemen
,
the sign said. I was one of those.

The door of the middle cubicle was
closed. Harle was behind it. I stood by the sink nearest the drier and waited.
A minute went by. There had been no sound.

The door opened and Harle, fiddling with
his jacket collar, took two paces out. He almost caught his breath in surprise
when he saw me and, turning back in, flushed the toilet. When he came out again
he looked completely calm and so pleased to see me you’d have thought I was his
dinner date.

He walked right up to me and shook
hands. ‘Eddie! They told me you were back. Great news, eh? How’ve you been
doing?’

I smiled back at him. He was small, even
for a jumps jockey, about five three, but he had what bodybuilders called good
symmetry though his face was far from symmetrical. He’d been a stable-lads
boxing champ in his younger days. Some said he was a hell of a lot better at
boxing than jockeying.

He couldn’t have been that good because
his nose was spread a fair bit and had been for as long as I’d known him. His
face was chipped in one or two places from racing falls and a crescent-shaped
thick pink scar showed through his dark thinning hair.

‘I’ve been doing all right,’ I said,
‘but not riding Champion Hurdle winners.’

‘Magic, eh?’ he beamed. He was drunk but
looked lively.

‘Fantastic,’ I said, ‘but no more than
you deserve after all the dogs you’ve ridden in the past.’

He turned to the mirror, still smiling,
and smoothly drew a comb from his back pocket. Only his head and shoulders
showed in the mirror as he combed his sparse hair. ‘Yeah, you can say that
again. And you won’t see me on no dogs in the future either, it’s going to be
all top quality stuff from here on in.’

‘Yes, I heard you’d landed a good
retainer with, eh, whaddyacall’im?’

The comb still moved in useless sweeps.
‘Roscoe,’ he said, ‘Basil Roscoe.’

‘That’s right. I couldn’t remember the
name. He’s a newcomer, eh?’

‘After your time anyway, Eddie.’

‘Yes, I’ve been out of touch.’

The comb stopped. Harle admired its work
then pushed it back into his pocket. He was still looking in the mirror so I
turned too and our reflections carried on the conversation.

‘Any more like Castle Douglas tucked
away?’ I asked.

‘We’ve got a couple of cracking novices.
One runs in the Triumph on Thursday, Tourist Attraction, he’s called.’

‘Fancy him?’

‘He’ll skate up. Don’t miss him.’

‘I won’t. Who owns him?’

He hesitated. ‘He’s the same owner as
Castle Douglas.’

‘Lucky man. Who is he?’ I tried to
appear open-faced and innocent. I don’t know if he bought it because he paused
again before answering and gave me a glance which said, is this guy kidding?

‘Mister Perlman, he’s Roscoe’s biggest
owner.’ He straightened his tie, leaving the top shirt button loose.

‘Perlman? Never heard of him either,’ I
said.

‘He’s only come into the game recently.’

I shook my head slowly. ‘Boy, I can’t
get moving for overnight success stories since I came back.’

Turning from the mirror he looked up at
me accusingly. I smiled in apology and grabbed his arm. ‘Hell! I don’t mean
you, Alan. You deserve every winner you get, you’ve worked hard for your
success.’ He seemed placated.

I followed up. ‘But if you’re honest,
doesn’t it make you sick when guys like Roscoe and Perlman flash a few quid
around and suddenly they’ve got a Champion Hurdler when they haven’t been in
the business five minutes?

He shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is,
Eddie, money talks.’

‘Where did Perlman make his fortune
then?’

‘Nobody knows.’ He was fishing in his
pockets but his hands came out empty. ‘Any smokes?’ he asked.

‘Sorry.’ I laughed. ‘Go in and ask
Perlman for a Havana, I’m sure he can afford it.’

‘I would if I knew what he looked like.’

I looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking
about?’

He smiled.

I thought I heard the door open. Harle
spoke. ‘What I could tell you about Perlman ...’

There was a slight squeak from the door
spring. I heard no footsteps on the tiled floor but Harle became alert. He gave
a follow-me nod and turned to leave. Whoever had come in was hidden from us by
a dividing wall; he heard us move and began walking in. Turning at the end of
the wall we almost collided with a small, neatly dressed and apparently
stone-cold sober man wearing thick glasses.

He looked surprised. ‘Oh sorry!’ he said
and stepped aside to let us pass. ‘Have to be getting the old eyes tested
again, Alan.’

Harle nodded at him and smiled. We went
out into the corridor.

‘Friend of yours?’ I asked.

‘I’ve seen him around the racecourse and
he’s in here with us tonight. Don’t know who asked him.’

We began walking back to the party.
‘Anyway, what were you saying about Perlman?’ I asked.

We reached the door of the Directors
Suite. ‘Some other time, Eddie, eh?

‘Sure. What about Friday, after racing?’

‘Fine, yeah, great.’

His look didn’t match his words and I
knew his mind was elsewhere. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll meet you by the weighing
room.’

‘Definitely. Look forward to it.’

 I headed along the corridor and
returned to the toilet. All three cubicle doors were open. Stepping through the
centre one I closed it behind me. Taped to the base of the cistern I found a
plastic bag containing an empty glass phial and a syringe.

I made my way back to the car thinking
there might just be a buzz to be had playing amateur detective. It didn’t
deliver the thrills of my riding days, but it would do for now.